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I, Conde Nast Traveler.
Since 1989, in the pages of magazines, I traveled to the tables of families and friends in Italy, Spain and France. Where the wine and food flowed endlessly to the lips and onto the tongues of everyone with joyous mouthfuls. In my youth, we didn't travel as a family. Not abroad. We spent summers on the Jersey shore - Beach Haven. Two hours by car for what felt like two months of crabbing and slip-sliding the amusement park waters of Thundering Surf, which is now Fantasy Island for the young kids. We took these trips with family friends. The cottages we rented, stuffed with parents and kids bunked together, were four in a row - these were our villas on the coast. Khaki sand, white rocks and broken seashells spread in front of these havens for the families from Brooklyn. At the end of our summers we feasted on boiled crab legs, pasta salad and Fluke reeled in on rented fishing rods. Beer and cheap wine kept the adults content. This was our Monaco and Amalfi, Barcelona and Biarritz. I entered High School and we ceased taking these vacations. When the late Spring was upon us with no Summer plans to speak of, we would always wonder why we didn't buy the property when we had the chance. Exactly at this time, I would leave the dinner table conversation, retreat to my room and flip the pages of travel magazines aspiring to lose time the way we used to. When I progressed playing football in High School, the exotic lands of my dreams were the football fields I saw on ABC College Gameday. When I was fortunate to play ball in college, we would board buses to compete in stadiums built of stone with Ivy crawling up the walls, covering the cracks of time. With friendships born in College of men of Western States, I went West. I visited, on holiday, families whose homes were six to a block and explained to them that I grew up with not one set of parents or one refrigerator to prepare a sandwich, but sixty. The row houses of Brooklyn were all my homes, all my parents and all my meals. Although amazed by the vastness of California, the sunshine and palm trees, the fast food and families apart, I still dreamt of faraway places and foreign languages I didn't speak. The water and the wine and the girls with the villas. The art and the nobility, the history and the stories in every stone. The luggage carrier for International travelers at Catania's airport is in a back room as if to say, why are you here. I retort, my life is in that luggage and that life starts today... of course, if my ride is here. He is. Best friend in tow. Peppe Calafiore and Loris. Two shakes, four kisses, and one mini van for my vast accouchements. First stop, the bar for an espresso, then to lunch at the Calafiore compound. We speed the streets up the coast of Catania towards Piazza Europa. History emanates from the fish and farmer's markets, fallen structures, rebuilt after the devastating volcanic eruption and the earthquake of the late 17th century. Quick math, that makes every thing around me over three hundred years old and the still standing Greek and Roman and Arab relics nearly 3,000 - Katane was founded in 724 BC by Greek colonists. A period, Plato later remarked, as one of exploration of the Mediterranean, "like frogs to a pond" the surrounding states were flocking to new coastlines. Sicily sits in he middle of the tranquil sea. Off Piazza Europa there is a Bar, aptly named, Cafe Europa. I find this an establishment of coffee, pastry, pasta, pizza, beer, wine, booze and a central meeting point, when traversing "new" Catania. Cafe Europa is at the end of the strip known as Corso Sicilia and surrounded by commercial office buildings, beaches, highways and shopping. But its main attraction is its espresso. I am quick to get used to the four to six shots of the blistering hot stimulant on a daily basis. Twenty minutes later we are heading to the Calafiore house to find his family waiting for a feast to begin. The house is on a hill. There is a view of the sea to the east, the mountains and Etna to the west. The grounds are artfully decorated with plants of the region, including citrus trees and edible vegetables. These are the plants that strive above sea level, that steal the sun and store it in their vines, leaves, roots and rocks to grow higher and more beautiful when we close our eyes and wake each morning. The table was set. Glasses wait anxiously for the sugar and alcohol of the regional grapes. Sit, sit. Drink, drink. The table was long, under a canopy of trees, with a hammock stationed on the far end. The seats were full, nine to lunch. The only meal served in mid-afternoon on a beautiful Sunday in Sicily. They attempted to speak English and when they struggled, I attempted to speak Italian. Then came the food. And we didn't talk. Prosciutto and melon, cacio covello, cheese from the Ragusa region. White wine. Parmeggiano Regianno with the thick, black, significantly aged balsamic vinegar. The syrupy vinegar out-aged everyone at the table. Red wine. Peppered potato salad, sauteed and grilled vegetables. Eggplant layered like lasagna. Pasta with tomatoes and beef. Sword fish. Then the fruit, bottomless bowls of cherries, apricots and plums. Desert wine. Grappa, whiskey. Chocolates. A cake, crusted in shape of a rose, light and airy as it melted in your mouth. Coffee and cigarettes. From sunshine to dusk we dined as if it were our last supper. Satisfied, I was rolled in a car and taken to my apartment, but first another stop at Cafe Europa. Tomorrow Brings
Post 2 - June'05 Back to home...
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